


Fire

by cassiopeia221B



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Baby (mentioned), Comfort, Confessions, Grief/Mourning, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, M/M, Mutual Pining, Pining
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-02-23
Updated: 2016-03-06
Packaged: 2018-05-22 20:17:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 16,635
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6092830
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cassiopeia221B/pseuds/cassiopeia221B
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It was quite a sad, eerie picture unfolding itself in front of John’s eyes. Sherlock’s dark figure standing petrified, like an ancient marble statue basking in the dim, grey light, brooding, pondering, and maybe even recollecting old memories. Whether Sherlock was so fascinated watching the raindrops streaming down the glass or not, it seemed to be putting his mind at peace. He appeared to be calm and composed although John had a raging suspicion that it was all just a disguise.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

John had never experienced such a silent ride back to Baker Street, not even when he’d had to return home all those years ago, all by himself, thinking he’d just said his last goodbye. This time, Sherlock was sitting right there beside him but his mind didn’t seem to be present at all. He was quieter than usual, remarkably so, _apathetic_ even, but John could hardly blame him given the circumstances. Sherlock didn’t utter a single word ever since they got into the car, ignoring each and every single one of John’s attempts to distract him. He barely scowled at the annoying cabbie who kept asking him and John such inappropriate questions. John, albeit so enormously irritated, at least tried to be polite but Sherlock couldn’t be bothered to listen. Even the weather seemed to reflect Sherlock’s mood quite faithfully - gloomy, dismal and miserable. Sherlock resembled a lifeless puppet, glaring absently out the window.

Up until they arrived at the destination that is. As soon as the car stopped, Sherlock was the first one to fling out. He rushed toward the front door, glancing neither at John nor the driver so John had no other option but to pay for the car himself, as always.

“Arrogant little prick, your boyfriend,“ the man in the front seat grumbled, staring scornfully at Sherlock’s receding silhouette. At first he thought he must’ve misheard but the quite repulsed look on the driver’s face was enough to prove that John had indeed heard everything right and clear.

“Excuse me?“ John’s fist clenched at such insolent words, he was seething and yet his voice was perfectly steady. His eyes, however, his eyes were blazing dangerously with sheer resent and anger. If the conditions were any different John wouldn’t hesitated breaking the guy’s nose but the last thing Sherlock needed that day was John being taken to jail because of protecting his dignity.

“Listen to me, you have _no_ idea what he’s _actually_ like,“ John growled, leaning closer so no pedestrian could overhear what he was about to say. “Not sure what you’ve heard about him, but I can assure you that none of it is true. He’s neither a prick, nor arrogant, nor my-“ John’s voice halted all of a sudden, as if the words refused to leave his throat despite being absolutely true. It was simple: he _didn’t_ want them to be true. John wished for the right opposite, even though he considered it a bit absurd at the moment and not only because he was still married to someone else. And yet he couldn’t bring himself to finish the sentence.   

“You know what? Forget about it,“ he hissed instead. “You sure are damn lucky you haven’t met him sooner, he would have happily reveal all of your dirty secrets in ten seconds flat and you’d _deserve_ it. Now take the money and piss off,“ John huffed, swiftly turning on his heels.

John didn’t know what to expect once entering the flat. Each of his steps were slow and wary, he hadn’t prepared for this moment at all. One pathetic row with a cabbie was a mere trifle in compare to what was about to follow. It was going to be truly difficult, facing Sherlock after everything that had happened, especially since John couldn’t be sure how exactly Sherlock was going to behave. John had never before witnessed anything similar, not even the ever so infamous incident with Irene Adler had such an ill effect on Sherlock. Saying that John was worried would be an understatement. Sherlock was unpredictable, phlegmatic, his body just an empty shell. Considering what John had learnt about Sherlock’s past in these past few months, he had to be on a high alert, constantly. Each seemingly trivial shift in Sherlock’s attitude could result in a tragedy, at least that was what John was scared of the most.

Once he finally reached the first floor he was surprised to find Sherlock in the sitting room, turned away so he seemed to be gazing through the window again.

It was quite a sad, eerie picture unfolding itself in front of John’s eyes. Sherlock’s dark figure standing petrified, like an ancient marble statue basking in the dim, grey light, brooding, pondering, and maybe even recollecting old memories. Whether Sherlock was so fascinated watching the raindrops streaming down the glass or not, it seemed to be putting his mind at peace. He appeared to be calm and composed although John had a raging suspicion that it was all just a disguise.

John wavered for a couple of moments, fiddling with his fingers behind his back until he finally decided to break the ponderous silence. “How are you feeling?“ he piped up after a moment, cautiously picking each single word.

“Don’t bother, please.“ At least Sherlock replied. That was a good sign. Although it was hardly an answer John had hoped for, he was glad that Sherlock was communicating again.

“I was just trying to-“

“Just _don’t_.“ 

“Sherlock, come on, you can’t shut yourself out like this,“ John lamented, making sure it didn’t sound too reproachful.

“Why? Is it not _human_ enough?“ Sherlock retorted in an instant, casually shoving his hands into his pockets.

“No, that’s not what I - not at all,“ John blinked in confusion. “I-I just think that it’s not – it’s not right, it’s not _healthy_ for you, Sherlock,“ he added, full of worry that practically emanated from his voice.

Sherlock seemed to succeed in shielding his heart so no signs of hurt or grief emerged upon the surface. He was so determined to not expose any kind of weakness that he appeared to be emotionless, a trick that fortunately didn’t work on John anymore. Had it been someone else they would look upon Sherlock with contempt but John knew very well that underneath that sharp, pale mask there was a small, fragile man with a broken heart who needed help even though he so vehemently refused to admit it. No amount of bitter remarks could convince John about the opposite.

“Sherlock, listen to me please. You've been this despondent for days already. We _should_ talk about it,“ John suggested, cutting the silence that once again descended for a brief moment. Sherlock offered an immediate response, his voice creepily calm and low all of a sudden.

“If you’re concerned I may get high and accidentally overdose just because my brother has died then I can assure you that I have no such intentions, John. I am... fine.“

“I-I didn’t-“

“ _Yes_ , you _did_ , John,“ Sherlock sighed. “You’re scared I may be about to do something utterly ridiculous. I will repeat myself when I say that I am _fine_. I won’t do anything reckless, I swear. “

It seemed to be useless trying to reason with Sherlock but John was having none of that. “I am not entirely sure I believe you, Sherlock,“ John admitted, risking a small step forward. “You’re exceptionally quiet. You didn’t even make a speech at the funeral. You-you _ran away_. Is _this_ how you want to cope?“ he made a vague gesture with his hand to put an emphasis on his words. “Sherlock, I just want to help you. I am – I am worried about you, please-“

“ _No_ reason to be worried, John,“ Sherlock protested. “I think it would be for the best if you’d go now,“ he added quickly, sensing that John was about to raise another objection.

“Go?“ John frowned, his brow furrowing, almost as if he didn’t understand what exactly Sherlock was proposing. “You want me to… _leave_?“

Sherlock didn’t, of course he didn’t. He had already learnt his lesson. At the moment, however, chasing John away sounded like the best possible decision he could make. Sherlock yearned to allow John in, allow him to help, he craved for John the way he’d never craved for anyone, not even a drug, but admitting it in that very moment would be a ridiculously foolish move, Sherlock thought. He wished he could pour his heart out and recount the entire truth but the truth was horrendous, mortifying, tying Sherlock’s hands. Breaking everything to John, admitting how weak and hopeless he in fact was Sherlock considered a failure he still couldn’t risk to undergo. And yet he didn’t say those words aloud again, he loathed the lie they represented so he stayed quiet in hope that John would eventually decide to leave on his own. All in vain. Because John was persistent, he seemed to be determined to take care of Sherlock, even if it had to be the last thing he’d ever do.  

“Look,“ John started, cautiously choosing the words he was about to say, “I’ve promised your brother that I’ll look after you and there’s _nothing_ you can say or do that would prevent me from doing so. You won’t push me away, never again, Sherlock.“

“Oh, so _that’s_ why you are so stubborn,“ Sherlock drawled all of a sudden, flashing John a forced but rueful smile as he turned to face him. It was rather a heart-breaking sight, watching Sherlock as he tried so hard to pretend he was completely unaffected. “You’d feel bad for not fulfilling my brother’s last wish. Is that why you’re so eager to stay?“ he conjectured, an assumption even Sherlock himself didn’t actually believe. His eyes glinted with abashment before he turned back toward the window, his head hanging down and lips pursed. The ever so distinctive taste of shame and guilt was intoxicating.

John opened his mouth to respond but it happened to be impossible through the lump in his throat. “God, you’re such an idiot,“ he blurted out at last, shaking his head in disbelief. A poor choice of words this time, words John regretted saying immediately once pronouncing them. And yet he didn’t seem to know what to say next, not until the silence that had filled the air again became simply too heavy to bear. 

“ _Sherlock_ ,“ he started carefully, taking a deep breath to compose himself. He wasn’t used to speak so bluntly in front of Sherlock. It took a great amount of effort and courage to be able to open up like that. “I-I don’t want to stay with you just because your brother asked me to. I want to stay because, for a thousandth time, I worry about you. I _care_ about you, genuinely.“

“You see and _that_ is your problem, John,“ Sherlock pointed out, swallowing thickly. “You care far too much.“

“Come on, now you speak like your brother.“

“Because _my brother_ was always right,“ Sherlock remarked. “Caring is a _weakness,_ John, always have been.“

“You can’t be serious,“ John gasped, crossing his arms. Sherlock could hear him approaching but he remained standing still, paralysed in one spot, almost as if he was too afraid to turn around and look John in the eyes. But then John uttered his name, once, twice, a mere whisper, his warm, sooth voice piercing through the ice cold façade Sherlock wore in order to give away none of his true emotions. Sherlock had hoped that this time they’d manage to avoid leading such intimate, tedious conversations but judging from how John hesitated to speak, shuffling his feet and clearing his throat so awkwardly, it was quite obvious where all of it was going. 

“I thought that after all we’ve been through together, Sherlock, you’d be more honest with me,“ John admitted, gazing at Sherlock, patiently, until Sherlock finally turned to the side, locking their eyes. His face was rigid, unreadable, whatever Sherlock felt in that moment he must’ve kept it buried deep inside, concealing, hiding like a wounded animal in fear of bursting into tears in front of John.

“I _am_ being honest with you, John,“ Sherlock insisted but his voice betrayed him, cracking under the weight of all those repressed feelings.

“No, you’re not,“ John objected, taking one more step to shorten the gap between them. “Not even right now, you’re not even being honest with _yourself_ , Sherlock,“ he added. “Can’t you see what a lie you’re telling yourself? You may pretend you believe this but I know you’re not. Sherlock, you – you’ve _lost_ your brother. I understand how bloody devastating is to lose someone… someone you _love_ but-“

“John, for God’s sake, what even is your point?“ Sherlock snarled through his gritted teeth, choking back a sob that was about to escape his throat. “What do you expect me to do? Am I supposed to - to cry my heart out? Should I wallow in tears for _days_ , snivelling how much I miss my brother?“

John shook his head again. “I just want you to be honest. Just let me help, talk to me, I don’t want you to go through this alone.“ For a moment he thought that those walls that Sherlock had built so long ago have already tumbled down but Sherlock somehow managed to muster up enough control so he wouldn’t shatter completely.

“You and I both know that I’ve always meant to be alone, John,“ Sherlock muttered after a moment, words painful and dreadful enough to remind John how vulnerable Sherlock in fact was. He wasn’t what people thought him to be, not a machine of any sort. Sherlock was scared and lonely, grieving the loss of his dear brother no matter what ruses he was trying to sell. But he couldn’t fool John. Sherlock was suffering, immensely so and John could see right through him at last, read him like an open book although the reason _why_ he decided to distant himself from emotions like that was still unknown to him.

“What I _know_ is that no one, not least _you_ , Sherlock, should think so terribly low of themselves,“ John said, his voice hoarse and shaking with remorse. “I know you’re hurt, I know you’re mourning, there’s no use faking. I know _you_ , Sherlock. Come on, you’re – you’re not meant to be alone,“ John breathed out, startled by his own words, heaviness of which he didn’t realise until actually saying them.

Sherlock’s breath hitched. “You don’t know what you’re talking about, John.“

“Then _explain_ , please,“ John pleaded. “Why are you like this? You can’t just pretend that you don’t care, that’s insane. I know you don’t even want this, so… why don’t you just tell me the truth, Sherlock? You know you can trust me. Sherlock-“

“You wouldn’t understand, John,“ Sherlock snapped, “I can’t expect you to. I’ve spent years living this life, _this_ is the life I _deserve_ , don’t you get it? Why should I surrender, why should I allow myself any sentiment? Whenever I do, people just-“ Sherlock’s words morphed into a desperate groan, his face scrunched in a crestfallen grimace.

“People _what_?“ John stared agape at him, he’d rather brush off the notion that just crossed his mind but much to the terror, it was unfortunately making far too much sense. “Sherlock, you _don’t_ think that Mycroft’s death was your fault, right? Just please, tell me you don’t.“ He reached to caress Sherlock’s arm but his hand froze mid-air, almost as if he wasn’t sure whether he was actually allowed such a move. Neither Sherlock seemed to be sure, his eyes were flicking rapidly between John’s face and his hand that was still hovering in the air.

“God, why don’t you just leave it _be_ , John,“ Sherlock sighed deeply, as if the heaviest burden was resting upon his shoulders. He threw one more dejected glance in John’s direction before he turned around, striding toward the door without even grabbing his coat.

John immediately stepped forth to follow him, panic in his voice almost palpable. “W-wait, where are you going now?“

“Out,“ Sherlock answered, terse and dry. “You don't have to worry, I _promise_ , just please... please don’t pursue me, John,“ he requested, disappearing before giving John another chance to stop him.

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: mention of drugs

Sherlock practically ran down the stairs, tripping over his own feet as he hurried so fast to leave. He had no aim but to get as far as possible, far from the overwhelming impact of emotions that had clogged his mind. But there seemed to be no use concealing, not anymore, Sherlock realised that as soon as he found himself standing on the pavement. Trying to run away from his feelings would have been as preposterous as trying to escape his own shadow. Sherlock might have been able to delete information he considered no longer important, he might have been prone to forget bits and pieces of no value, but if there was one thing he couldn’t get rid of no matter how hard he tried to reject it, it was what he felt. Sherlock’s carefully crafted armour had already cracked, he had been exposed and all of what he’d wanted to hide and protect along with him. He couldn’t even walk away without glancing up through the window. Sentiment. Maybe.

Sherlock wasn't prepared for such a sight, however. John was standing there behind the glass, utterly terrified, looking down at Sherlock so hurt as if he was losing a piece of his own heart. For a moment Sherlock stood bewildered in the middle of the street, ignoring the droplets of water that seeped uncomfortably through his clothes. Even through the thick wall of rain he could see John’s pained face quiet clearly, so clearly he nearly took a step back and returned to the flat so he could take everything back and explain, never mind the consequences. Talk to John. Anything to be in his presence.

But then John averted his eyes all of a sudden, nodding slightly as if in support, before disappearing behind the curtain once again. He seemed to finally understand that what Sherlock needed so desperately was  _time_  and there was nothing else John could do but gave it to him. And yet Sherlock hesitated for a moment, reconsidering the choice he’d made. He didn’t actually think of any particular place he'd go to, he'd fled in the heat of a moment, making one hasty decision after another. But once he was sure that John was not about to show again he turned around as he'd initially intended, plodding down the empty drenched street, lost in the vortex of his own thoughts.

Sherlock was roaming through the city for well over an hour already, shivering in cold, his suit soaking wet even though the rain had ceased already and his feet as tired as if he’d just travelled miles, the truth, however, was that he wasn’t walking so aimlessly anymore. Soon he recognised the old, shabby buildings, buildings he remembered seeing earlier that day, a narrow block of fire brick and slate grey walls that were lining the road from each side. He walked slouched for another few minutes, his steps becoming less and less confident until he stopped at once, anxiously gulping at the sight of a tall, iron gate that appeared in front of him.   What lied behind the fence had been a world of its own, peaceful but mysterious, resting beneath the crowns of giant, ancient oaks.

Sherlock stared uncertainly at the stone path in front of him, wondering what forces had actually persuaded him into making that unexpected decision. Coming back to that place was the last thing he was supposed to do if he truly wanted to escape the pain and yet there he was, attempting to face it instead. What exactly had changed his mind so suddenly he wasn’t sure of, it didn’t even matter at the moment as he reached to push the rusted gate open.

John. As always. The answer had to be John. If it wasn’t for him, Sherlock would most certainly never return to the cemetery that day. He wouldn’t be trudging through the fallen leaves and mud, cold and dishevelled, just so he could visit his brother once again. If it wasn’t for John, Sherlock would’ve fallen. Back into the filthy mess of cocaine and syringes, burrowed in a crack house getting high in order to simply forget. But he’d made a promise. Sherlock had made a promise that was not worth breaking even if the payoff was meant to be a brief moment of ecstasy, a moment when he could finally release the sorrow that had been eating him alive for days already. It was not worth disappointing and hurting John so vilely.

John was right after all, about everything, and Sherlock hated himself for that he had not been able to admit it just yet. He hated himself for faking and pretending for such a long time, for lying to John just so he could protect the truth, that dark secret he had sworn to never give away. The reason behind Sherlock’s pain and trauma, the reason why he had not only decided to deny himself any kind of feelings that had the power to affect him more he was willing to allow, but why he also always blamed himself for everything bad that had happened to the people he loved. The reason why instead of reaching for help, he had reached for drugs so many times. Sherlock had managed to keep that childhood secret hidden from John, never even hinting at it, he had always managed to stay in control, whatever the circumstances. But now that Mycroft was gone the pressure that had been pushing down on Sherlock for well over three decades was even more violent,  _aggressive_ , threating to crush and destroy him. The fact that John was so determined to know what made Sherlock the way he was didn’t help either.

Sherlock, however, didn’t blame John for being so curious. Sherlock himself had gone to great lengths just so he’d dug information about John’s past. But such an atrocious, ugly, so excruciatingly painful truth _he_ was protecting was not meant to be revealed, it would be a mistake. At least that was what Sherlock thought at first. Because no matter what John believed in, Sherlock was almost sure that he would never understand what’d happened, not least why Sherlock and Mycroft agreed on never telling another soul.

On another hand, if there was anyone who  _deserved_  to know, it was John. If Sherlock hadn’t so much doubt, if he wasn’t so scared of the possible outcome, of being judged and, contrary to what he’d told John, scared of being doomed to truly stay alone forever he would have confessed much sooner.

Caught between a rock and a hard place. Sherlock now understood what people meant when uttering those words. He did feel like trapped after all. The longer he pondered about it, about the past, the future, trying to come up with the best possible solution, trying to decide what step to take next, the louder his thoughts were, shouting at him, burning him from inside. Sherlock would have maybe collapsed right then and there under such enormous weight of hopelessness if it wasn’t for a sudden shrill croak of crows echoing somewhere in the distance that snapped him out of it. It wasn’t until then that he perceived, realising he’d already reached Mycroft’s grave.  

“God, what even I am doing here again.“ Sherlock wasn’t aware of saying those words aloud. He was merely aware of glaring at his brother’s tombstone planted in front of a stone angel who was there to guard him. According to Sherlock’s mum at least. Nevertheless, it was quite a melancholic but creepy scene depicted in front of his eyes. Sherlock’s vision became blurry all of a sudden as if he found himself in a nightmare he couldn’t wake up from. He swallowed dryly a couple of times, taking only quick, shallow breaths. As much as he detested the reality, there was nothing he could do but to accept it.

Sherlock refused to speak at Mycroft’s funeral, he wasn’t even sure why he so spontaneously decided to do it in that very moment but he opened his mouth anyway, hoping the right words would eventually escape on their own. Failing at first. Quite miserably so.    

“I – I am...  _sorry_ , I don’t know what exactly I am doing right now so bear with me please, brother,“ Sherlock sighed at last, bashfully biting on his lower lip as if Mycroft was standing there in person, ready to reprimand him for all the wrongs Sherlock had done. But he wasn’t there. He was never again going to be there.

The silence was suddenly so daunting, so thick, Sherlock felt he could suffocate if he didn’t break it. “I – I know I  _should_  say  _something_ ,“ he breathed out, “I should have said something the first time I stood here, but… I just couldn’t,“ he shrugged apologetically. “Not in front of all those people. Not in front of  _John_. Speaking of which - I apologise for leaving so hastily. You know I am not suited for _any_ of this, Mycroft. But then again… I guess none of us is. Well, that being said, I still have no idea what to do, so - Oh, what a  _rubbish_  brother I am,“ Sherlock yelped, running a hand down his face as if he tried to hide, as if he was ashamed of not being able to open up the way he’d strived to.

“For God’s sakes, John was right,“ he cried out after a moment, tossing his hands into air, “I  _do_  need help, I should have let him. I am lost, I am  _clueless_ , Mycroft.“ Sherlock’s own faltering voice sounded alien to him as he spoke. Admitting that he was so weak and lonely, albeit to himself only, was a huge step forward in yet unfathomed direction.

“John… God, he wants to know the entire truth, Mycroft,“ Sherlock continued after a moment, turning whatever thoughts that had crossed his mind into words. “He wants to know what made the bastard out of me. Well, to be fair, those weren’t his exact words, but he’s learnt to see through me, crystal clear. I should’ve expected such a turn of events. John’s rather smart isn’t he?“ he smiled sadly. “I am no longer able to lie to him. I don’t  _want_  to. I am… exhausted. Is that what people usually say once they’re no longer able to cope?“ Sherlock scowled, talking directly to Mycroft’s name engraved into the stone.

“The thing, Mycroft, is that… you’re not here anymore and now there’s only me and… these secrets we used to share- “Sherlock let out a shaky sigh, struggling to finish what he’d started.  “I guess that’s why I am here, am I not? It’s so  _difficult_ , I can’t take it on my own anymore. I want to tell him, I do, but how? I don’t think he would understand  _no one_  would. Then again, maybe John  _would_ … he truly... cares about me, would you believe that? You've always claimed that once you let someone so close you're destined to fail in everything because that person now owns your heart and you're no longer able to do anything without prioritising _them_. But is that truly such a disadvantage, Mycroft? Yes, obviously, John has always been an exception, he - he makes me feel stronger, worthy. He’s  _worried_  about me. He even believes that I don’t deserve to be alone. I am not sure what exactly was that supposed to mean, but - Between you and me, Mycroft, I reckon I owe him the truth as much as I owe him my life, I am just not sure, I – dear lord, what even is the point, I am just talking to myself, am I not?“ he sniffed, shaking his head quite vigorously. “I am such a pathetic mess. Look at me now, how I care. Look, how much I need John, how I still need you. But you’ll never guide me again will you? You’ll never give me an advice again. I’ll never know if you’d approve of my decisions and the worst is that...  _I_  am to be blamed.  _Again_.“

This time Sherlock didn’t fight. He let the tears roll down his cheeks, allowing himself to indulge in that momentarily relief. But it hardly lasted for long enough. What was dark and unwelcomed had soon crept back in, returning with such a force that pushed Sherlock down on his knees. Vicious, intrusive thoughts strangling him, drowning him in guilt, despair and anguish. He couldn’t move, almost as if he’d been chained to the ground, long forgotten images flashing in front of his eyes against his will. Past interchanging with present.

There Sherlock saw himself, vividly, like a hallucination. A little boy with an eye-patch and his brother, both laughing heartily as they’d ran through a golden wheat field, poking each other with their wooden swords. Mycroft’s voice resounded in Sherlock’s head, a voice that hadn’t belonged to either of those boys. A voice that had warned him, but Sherlock hadn’t been listening.

And then silence. Punctuated by nothing but a dog barking frantically but Sherlock might have as well imagined that. He didn’t hear himself laughing anymore. He saw no happy, innocent boy but a horror in his own juvenile eyes, hot stream of tears bursting out of his eyes. Mycroft’s words, uttered in a raw shock, sharp like a dagger cutting through his own heart.

_Oh, Sherlock, what have you done?_

“What have I done?“ Sherlock sobbed once the illusion faded away and he found himself kneeling in the grass again, clutching at his own jacket so tightly he could tear it apart. “This - this wasn’t meant to happen again, Mycroft, I should’ve _predicted_ it. My brother wasn’t supposed to die. Not because of _me_ ,“ he shook his head, shutting his eyes as if that somehow could make the image in front of him disappear.

It couldn’t.

Nothing had changed. Not even once Sherlock blinked to open his eyes again after an achingly long while. The angel was still there, towering above Sherlock with its wings spread wide and hands folded peacefully across its chest, green vines of ivy draped around its stone frame. Not nearly as terrifying as Sherlock first deemed it to be. He stared at that serene, solid face, breathing deep and heavily until he calmed down again, enough so he could finally wipe away the tears that had flooded his face.

“God, I am sorry.  _S-sorry_ ,“ Sherlock stuttered as he scrambled up to his feet at last, not even bothering to sort himself. “I guess I – I should be going, I shouldn’t even be here to begin with, this turned out to be a horrible idea-“ he sighed, contradicting his own words, however, as he took two wobbly steps toward the headstone.

“B-before I leave, however... I know I am just making it worse for both of us, but there is still one more thing I need to tell you Mycroft,“ he pursed his quavering lips, his fingers twitching to touch the stone but he caught himself not being bold enough so he simply let the words to be heard instead.

“I – This is not easy to admit, Mycroft, you can imagine but, please know that you were the best brother I could've wished for. I can but apologise for never admitting it aloud sooner. I hope, I do, that _wherever_ you are, you’ll be willing to forgive me one day. For everything,“ he bowed his head gently.

“Goodbye, brother mine.“


	3. Chapter 3

It was already past dusk when Sherlock finally returned home. He staggered across the entryway as if he’d been completely drained of energy, not even able to walk the stairs without clinging to the railway.

What’d happened at the cemetery he shouldn’t have allowed to happen, he was positive of that. Sherlock had rarely given his feelings the permission to rule his head and body, and even if he had he’d always done it for John. This time it was different. There were no permissions. Sherlock had lost control over himself, regaining it back only very slowly. Once the memory he’d tried to repress for years forced itself to be remembered again, his already frail shield shattered like porcelain, breaking into thousands of pieces. Sherlock was desperate to shout the truth into the world, share that agonising pain that had been secretly torturing him for far too long already. 

Sherlock shuddered, trying to brush off that venomous voice that had been whispering to him. Clouding his mind with such unpleasant thoughts was quite imprudent at the moment, especially because his body had dozed off already, turning so numb he could barely stand on his feet.

As soon as he climbed the last pair of stairs he could hear that something had moved behind the door, an obscure, muffled noise as if someone just shuffled from one place to another. The idea that John would still be there, however, sounded perhaps too good to be true, considering the possibility that he might had been hurt by Sherlock’s words. Sherlock had already regretted he’d fibbed just so John would leave him alone but it might as well been too late already. Since what he _truly_ wanted was that John would stay. Forever, if it was even remotely possible. Sherlock would’ve taken all those blatant lies back in an instant if he could, for hurting John, albeit unintentionally was something he despised. The next time they were about to have a chance to talk, he was determined to confess, no matter what cost.

John could’ve held Sherlock in his arms and listen to him, talk to him, his kind, and mellow voice lulling Sherlock to sleep if Sherlock just asked. If Sherlock took John’s helping hand instead of pushing John away, everything could’ve been different. Or maybe not. Sherlock couldn’t be sure. That wasn’t what their relationship was about after all, much to Sherlock’s disappointment. Perhaps it wasn’t even the right time to ask _what if_ , not when Mary and her baby was in picture, not when Mycroft was gone. Not when Sherlock still didn’t fully comprehend what John actually felt. Fear of rejection had always been one of the main reasons why he'd stayed so quiet about his feelings.    

Sherlock snapped again, hissing at his own obnoxious mind for that it kept wandering away. He was glad no one saw him at that moment, wet, ragged and dirty, on the verge of another emotional breakdown, desperately trying to hush himself. As it turned out three second later, however, he was not nearly as alone as he thought. The moment he reached for the doorknob the doors flew open all of a sudden, John’s immensely concerned face peeking from inside the room.

“Thank God, Sherlock-“

“J-John?“ Whether Sherlock was more shocked or relieved to see him again, John couldn’t tell.

Sherlock stared at him perplexed, only vaguely aware of John’s arm that sneaked around his waist. He still didn’t quite process the fact that John was indeed there, keeping his word that he wasn’t going to leave him. John even walked him towards his chair, supporting his body as if he was an injured soldier who needed to be carried off the battlefield.

“Christ, you must be freezing,“ John gasped worriedly, his eyes fixed on Sherlock’s sallow face, callous but tender fingers reaching to brush those damp curls off Sherlock’s forehead. Sherlock sunk down in his chair with a strained sigh, allowing John to do whatever he considered necessary without cutting off his self-reproachful monologue.

“This is all _my_ bloody fault,“ John groaned, rushing to put the kettle on, never taking his eyes of Sherlock as if he was afraid that something even worse could happen to him if he dared to look away. “If I wasn’t acting like a selfish dick you wouldn’t-“

“Y-you? _You_ were acting like a dick?“ Sherlock cocked an eyebrow, his voice raspy, almost gravelly, words leaving his throat so sluggishly as if he was talking in sleep. He might have as well caught something nasty out there. Or maybe he just still couldn’t believe the miracle in front of his very eyes.

“Why of course,“ John nodded affirmatively, trotting back with a handful of blankets he’d brought from Sherlock’s bedroom. “If I’d left just as you asked me you wouldn’t go – wherever it is you were – you wouldn’t be in such an awful condition. Look at you, you –“

“No, I am – I am glad you’ve stayed,“ Sherlock murmured, lowering his eyes. “Quite surprised but glad. You’ve done no wrong, John.“

John froze in spot, almost as if he forgot what he was initially about to do. “But-“

Sherlock laggardly raised his hand to shush him. “ _John_ , I may not say this too often but trust me… _I_ was wrong, not you,“ he admitted, lifting his gaze. “You were right. I wasn’t honest with you, I wasn’t fine, God, not at all. I _lied_ to you because - because I was trying to hide. But what I’ve realised is that… I _was_ an idiot. I didn’t want you to go, I was just…“

“Just - just what?“ John wavered for a couple of short moments, shocked by such a stark change in Sherlock's behaviour. He was approaching Sherlock so heedfully as if he was a small, frightened fawn he could accidentally startle if he hadn’t been cautious enough. Sherlock himself felt as such, staring wide-eyed at John who just kneeled down next to his chair.

Sherlock swallowed nervously, a hint of uncertainty sparkling in his weary eyes. He could either be honest at last, or he could continue lying to John, which, however, was completely in contrast with the decisions he’d made earlier.

“ _Afraid_ ,“ he muttered after a moment of thoughtful reconsideration, letting out a tired sigh. A word that still tasted like a poison on his tongue, even though Sherlock had already accepted that fear was not meant to be anything he should be embarrassed for.

Sherlock had expected a quip or at least a raised eyebrow but he received none of that. What John offered instead was the sincerest nod of understanding. At least he _tried_ to understand.

“Afraid of _what_ , Sherlock?“ John asked softly, his voice merely above a whisper. “I told you – you can trust me, whatever it is you’re struggling with, I am here for you. Always. Not judging you. But if you’re not ready to tell me then of course, you don’t have to. It’s up to _you_ , whether you want to share or not. I’ll wait,“ John assured him, soft smile crossing his lips, a smile that turned upside down in an instant. “Jesus, I guess I should’ve told you _this_ in the first place. None of this would have happened. I - I feel like a prick, I apologise, Sherlock.“

Sherlock blinked, barely registering John’s words. “So – so you’re not _mad_ at me for all that stuff I’ve said earlier?“

“Mad?“ John raised an eyebrow, sitting down on his heels. “No, Sherlock, I know you’ve meant _none_ of that. You’re in a really bad place right now, you miss your brother. You were trying to convince me that you’re a cruel, heartless monster, yes, _God_ knows why, but – do you _really_ think I believed that? Not for one second. Why do you think I was so terrified you would do something stupid? Nothing has ever affected you so greatly. I’ve never seen you withering like this. I - I didn’t know what to expect, I was scared you would-“

“I've promised I wouldn’t do _that_ to you again,“ Sherlock objected, leaning forward so their faces were suddenly only a couple of inches apart. “ _Never_ , John.“

“Sh-Sherlock-“

“ _Please_ , John, let me finish. I am sitting here thanks to _you_. I can’t say I wasn’t tempted, but – you’ve changed my mind.“

“ _Me_? How so?“

“Well,“ Sherlock’s voice dropped low and hazy but he kept his eyes fixed on John. It wasn’t until now that John realised how red and glazy those heavenly blue eyes actually were. Sherlock must’ve been crying for hours. “If I simply gave up,“ Sherlock continued, “I - I would hurt you again, being fully aware of what I was doing. I couldn’t have let that happen. I don’t want to hurt you ever again, John.“

John’s face melted into the softest expression, tears glimmering in the corners or his eyes. Sherlock had been that open for the first time ever since the wedding, maybe even more, considering it was just the two of them in the room. “So,“ John cleared his throat, looking for the answers in Sherlock’s teary eyes, “what you’re saying is that-“

“Well, you’ve saved my life, John. Again. You’ve made me understand what I was actually supposed to do,“ Sherlock said, leaning back in his seat so to put more distance between them.

“And that is?“

Sherlock pursed his lips. “Let’s just say I owed someone a little speech. That being said, it didn’t work out quite as well as I had hoped. Something happened there, something I didn’t expect, John. I - “ Sherlock shivered, the space around him had vanished away all of a sudden, no warning signs. He found himself at the cemetery again, recognising the familiar elements - the soggy ground beneath his knees, the taste of salty tears on his tongue, wet, earthly smell filling the air, deafening silence ringing in his ears. Memories of past had formed clear images in front of his eyes, memories he’d tried so desperately to push back. Whether it lasted for a couple of seconds or an hour, Sherlock couldn’t know, it felt like eternity.

“Hey, Sherlock, are you with me?“ John’s voice dispersed the darkness Sherlock was groping in, almost as if someone just struck a match, letting the light in. Once Sherlock perceived, he realised John was in fact standing above him, gently holding his arms, his face once again much closer it should be.

“Yeah, yeah, s-sure,“ Sherlock stuttered, taking a brief moment to come back to himself. “What – what was I saying?“

“Doesn’t matter, it’s been a tough enough day, you should take a rest. _Immediately_.“ John advised, in a tone quite emphatic but affable nonetheless.

“B-but, John,“ Sherlock objected, stammering throughout his response. “You-you wanted to know, remember? The truth, the answers, the-“

“No,“ John shook his head resolutely. “Whatever it is it has to wait. You and your health are much more important at the moment. Jesus, you should have gotten rid of those wet clothes in the first place. Come on now, can you get up on your own?“ John stretched out his hand but Sherlock was already up on his feet, pouting.

“I am not _sick_ , John, I am just… tired,“ Sherlock shrugged but raised no more objections.

“We can’t neglect anything.“

Sherlock did a double-take. “W-we?“ he gasped.

“Well, I am here to take care of you,“ John smiled fondly. “But if you think that’s too weak of me-“

“No, no, no,“ Sherlock blurted out, worried he might have given off a wrong impression again. “I – I _don’t_ think that’s weak. I – I appreciate it,“ Sherlock added, taking a pause almost as if he couldn’t find a word strong enough to express his gratitude.

“So you’re finally willing to accept that caring about people who are important to you is not exactly a sign of weakness?“

Sherlock offered no response but a hesitant nod, knowing it was probably more than enough to satisfy John.

“You see, I just _knew_ you didn’t actually believe any of that, Sherlock. You’ve proved it so many times, I am surprised you actually tried to fool me again,“ John crossed him arms.

“Well, as a matter of fact, I am surprised myself, John. I should’ve known better at this point. I should’ve known you were going to figure it out yourself. There’s no use fooling such a smart man like you, is there?“

So far there’d been a subtle, barely noticeable smile on John’s lips that very quickly morphed into a bright, wide grin, one that John couldn’t fight even if he wanted. He opened his mouth to reply but Sherlock beat him to it.

“ _Yes_ , that was a compliment, John,“ he smiled softly, making John’s heart flutter. For a moment they stood there, both of them blushing faintly, rocking on their heels back and forth in rather an awkward silence until a high-pitched whistle disturbed the moment.

“Oh, God, I almost forgot,“ John cleared his throat, loudly, oscillating for a short while before striding to the kitchen. “I-I was about to make you a cup of tea, but then-“

“It’s fine, John, really, thank you. Your cup of tea is next on my list,“ Sherlock promised, trying to ignore the heat building high on his cheeks. “I-I think I may need a bath at first though. I can’t go to bed like this, can I?“ he added, attempting to banter but his sombre voice was a clear enough sign that he was hardly in the mood.

“S-sure, yeah, as you wish, yeah, that’s a great idea, I’ll draw a bath,“ John nodded in agreement, already half-way toward the bathroom.

“Wait, I didn’t mean-“Sherlock didn’t even manage to finish his sentence. The water was already running so he followed John instead, waddling down the corridor. Once he stepped into the bathroom he’d been hit by such a dazzling smell of lavender and chamomile that for a brief moment he forgot what even he was doing there in the first place. Sherlock was sure that he just must’ve walked in on John while he was about to have a bubble bath himself, the only thing missing were the candles that were usually scattered all over the room.   

John was bending over the tub, evidently not pleased with the water temperature although that disgruntled frown on his face might have as well been the result of him slouching in such an uncomfortable position.

“Are you – are you sure that all _this_ is necessary, John?“ Sherlock asked shyly but loud enough so John could hear him.

“Yeah, absolutely,“ John asserted. “You need to relax, get _warm_. You’ve been out there in such a horrid weather for _hours_ , Sherlock. It was your idea anyway.“

“Yes, but this is not what I-“ Sherlock sighed, exasperated, having no actual arguments to use. John was right after all. Sherlock needed to wash away the pain of losing Mycroft and memories of what had happened at the cemetery as soon as possible.

Sherlock wavered for a moment; deciding whether he should wait until John left or strip off his sloppy suit right then and then and therefore most certainly embarrass them both. John fortunately made it a lot easier for him. As soon as he noticed that Sherlock reached to undo the buttons of his shirt, he flashed him a sheepish smile, storming off the bathroom while blabbing something about making a tea but Sherlock couldn’t tell for sure.

John shut the door behind him, growling at himself for acting so inappropriately in such a moment. Yet he stood there, as if he was stiffened, listening for a while until he could be certain that Sherlock had indeed got into the tub.

Sherlock took his time, not coming out until half an hour later once all the bubbles burst and water cooled down already. John had been restlessly pacing in front of the door ever since the moment Sherlock’s tea was done, clutching the mug in his hands. Once he could hear a creak behind his back he immediately approached the door, thoroughly studying Sherlock’s face that had appeared in the doorway.

Sherlock blinked at John, so puzzled he failed in his attempt to tie the belt of his gown. “Have you been standing here this entire time?“

“N-not exactly,“ John stuttered, realising how stupid he must’ve looked staring at Sherlock like that. “I just – _here_ ,“ he blurted out, quickly handing Sherlock his tea instead of trying to come up with another ridiculous excuse. “Your favourite… I think at least, I am sorry, I’ve never made it myself, so-“

“ _John,_ you don’t have to keep apologising,“ Sherlock remarked, hiding his timid smile behind the rim of the mug. “Mhm, it’s perfect,“ he said, his lips curling up into another soft but exhausted smile before his expression changed all of a sudden, almost as if he was preparing to ask something he had to muster up enough courage for at first.

“I - I was wondering,“ Sherlock cleared his throat, his fingers nervously drumming on a mug. “Whether you -  I mean, you don’t seem you’re about to leave so… are you – are you going to stay for tonight?“ he bit his lip, glaring at John from under his lashes.

John tittered. “Well, that’s certainly a question I’d never thought you’d ask.“

“Well, there had been no need before,“ Sherlock shrugged, murmuring under his breath. “We used to live together.“

“Yes… yes we used to,“ John sighed. The fact it was no longer true was something John didn’t need to be reminded of at all. If he could he would move back in within a beat, never again thinking of the possibility of leaving Sherlock. He would stay with Sherlock, whether confessing his true feelings for him or not. Even though Sherlock seemed to be still convinced that what John wanted the most was to stay with his _wife_ and he’d never even considered another option.

“I am just saying… it’s late enough, John,“ Sherlock pointed out. “Mary’s waiting for you. You shouldn’t be leaving her alone like this.“

John nearly said that he’d already been _home_ but he managed to bite his tongue before making such a mistake. And a mistake it would be. Sherlock had had a horrendously rough day, choosing such a time to discuss the state of their relationship after five years of dancing around one another would be quite loony and highly disrespectful.

“I think that Mary is perfectly capable of taking care of herself, Sherlock,“ John uttered instead, avoiding Sherlock’s observing gaze.

“John, your baby may arrive any minute now, she _needs_ you.“

“ _You_ need me,“ John corrected him, this time looking right into Sherlock’s eyes. “You don’t have to worry about the baby, still two weeks to go. Besides… there’s – there’s something I wanted to tell you, I-“ John’s voice faded out, as if he suddenly realised that it simply wasn’t the right time telling Sherlock about the suspicions that Mary had planted into his head. He wasn’t even sure whether his doubt was actually justified or he’d been overanalysing insignificant points he’d considered clues.

“Yes?“ Sherlock raised an eyebrow, waiting for John until he’d continue explaining but John merely shook his head.

“It’s – it’s nothing, forget about it,“ he waved his hand.

“Are you sure? It seems to be important for you.“

“What’s truly important for me now is that you get enough sleep, so-“ John beckoned toward the bedroom. “I’ll be here if you need anything.“

Sherlock seemed to be quite concerned, noticing how John tensed up all of a sudden, but he smiled nevertheless, deciding to not dwell upon the subject. “I know you will. Thank you, John. But don’t you dare to not sleep yourself,“ he added. “You don’t have to patrol the whole night.“

John chuckled softly. “Well, I am not sure I’d feel particularly comfortable sleeping in _this_ , but-“

“Oh, if that’s the issue then... well, you can always borrow one of my shirts,“ Sherlock suggested, innocently, turning on his heels. Before John actually comprehended what Sherlock had said, Sherlock was already back, casually tossing a plain, flimsy shirt in John’s direction. John didn’t even flinch but stared at the piece of cloth in his hand as if it was for the very first time he’d seen such a thing, blinking rapidly in surprise.

“Th-thank you, I guess?“ he tilted his head in plain astonishment, wondering whether Sherlock realised what he’d just done, he couldn’t be sure, not when Sherlock didn’t even leave him any room to ask.

“My pleasure,“ Sherlock whispered, biding John goodnight.


	4. Chapter 4

John grunted, stiff and sore from lying in the same aching position for such a long time. He’d barely gotten any proper sleep. Half of the night he’d been pacing up and down between Sherlock’s bedroom and sitting room, making sure that everything had been as well as it should be. The other half he’d spent tossing around on the sofa, trying to ignore his constantly beeping phone, shivering under the blankets in nothing but pants and Sherlock’s shirt. Shirt that smelled like a freshly bloomed meadow but John wasn’t complaining. He’d noticed how meticulously Sherlock treated his clothes, using as much unnecessary products as when taking care of his hair, paying extra effort so the fabric was pliant and soft enough. John’s face split into a light smile at the thought of that man who’d tried to persuade everyone how careless he’d been.

A smile that morphed into a wry crook as soon as John shifted again, the moment he noticed that someone had been occupying the spot on the further side of the sofa. At first he was disoriented, blinking to open his eyes only slowly, Sherlock’s pale face being the first thing he recognised. Sherlock looked nowhere near as haggard as the day before but there was no spark in his eyes but sorrow, hidden behind the thin layers of blue.

“H-hey, you’re awake already?“ John’s voice was so raspy he had to repeat his question twice so the words he let out were actually comprehensible.

“Haven’t slept much,“ Sherlock sighed, lazily rubbing his thumb around the rim of the mug he was holding. “But you should know since you came to check on me  _nine_ _times_ , John,“ he added, smiling sleepily.

John’s eyes flew wide open, quite an efficient way how to snap him out of the drowsiness. “N-nine? Come on, don’t exaggerate.“

“Oh, no, I am really not.  _Nine_ , precisely. Last time at 4:37, that’s when you  _finally_  decided to call it a day,“ Sherlock said, suddenly a stern look in his eyes as if John had done something bad. “I told you, you didn’t have to do this all night. You’ll enjoy enough of nocturnal life once your baby’s born.“

John caught himself opening his mouth, once again ready to spit out what had been crossing his mind for quite a time already but he managed to bite his tongue again before that happened.

“Sherlock, I-I didn’t mind at all. It’s fine,  _really_ ,“ he yawned, sitting up so he could stretch and relax his muscles. Whether he realised that his feet had been pressed against the small of Sherlock’s back or not, he didn’t shuffle away.

“You didn’t have to bother, you know. I would have made you another,“ John pointed at the mug, leisurely rubbing the back of his head.

“Generous, but this one’s for  _you_  actually,“ Sherlock tittered.

“For me?“ John arched an eyebrow but didn’t think twice before accepting what Sherlock had offered. “Shouldn’t it be the other way around? _Me_  bouncing around  _you_?“ he chuckled, gently blowing off the hot steam before taking the first sip.

“Let’s be fair, it was  _my_  turn. You’ve done much more than I could have asked for, John. You didn’t go home, you didn’t sleep upstairs, well, you didn’t sleep at all. I am glad you didn’t refuse to wear something more comfortable at least. I was afraid you’d decline.“

John glanced at Sherlock’s oversized shirt, flushing profusely at the notion he was actually wearing a piece of Sherlock’s wardrobe. “Well,“ he licked his lips, taking another tentative sip. “If your girlfriend could have worn your shirt then why not me, eh?“ he chortled, a hint of amusement in his voice but what he actually felt was jealousy, bitter and sour, boiling in his veins each time one of them broached that subject. John secretly hoped that Sherlock had ritually burnt the shirt Janine dared to put on her, although in the same time he was quite ashamed of himself for having such ugly thoughts.

“ _Fake_  girlfriend,“ Sherlock reminded him. “Besides, she snatched it herself, it’s not like I had been actually home that night. Undercover, remember?“

“Sure,“ John lowered his eyes, this time taking one long gulp after another until his mug was half-empty. Fake or not, the sight of Sherlock kissing someone else had been quite queasy-worthy, John had to admit. He could hardly erase the memory of it, albeit feeling like an utter hypocrite since he had so often used to promenade around the flat in the company of his girlfriend, sometimes in a desperate hope of spurring a jealous reaction from Sherlock. And yet he so irrationally held grudge against basically everyone who had merely breathed in Sherlock’s presence. John might have as well turned green on the outside, it would at least explain Sherlock’s puzzled expression.

“Are you alright, John?“

“Of-of course, I was just – hey, isn’t it me who should be asking such questions?“ John inquired, attempting to change the topic as quickly as possible. Sherlock’s face dimmed out all of a sudden, but he didn’t avert his eyes.

“I am... better... I think.“ he uttered, looking anything but sure of his own answer but John let him continue without interjecting. “I’ve had enough time to think about what happened and – there’s nothing either of us can do to reverse the past, John, nothing we can do but attempt our best to…move on. I am not exactly sure how, I am not sure how to deal with all this. But what I do know is that I promised you the entire truth John, you deserve to know. The reason why I acted the way I did. I owe it to you, John. I want to be nothing but honest with you from now on.“

“You tell me once you  _truly_ feel like it,“ John assured him. “I thought we’d already agreed on that. Sherlock, I don’t want to make you feel like I am pushing you into it. I do realise that I have been acting like a moron yesterday, but-“

“You’re absolutely  _not_ pushing me into anything, John,“ Sherlock insisted. “I have already made it quite clear that I’ve completely changed my mind about this subject. I don’t want to be afraid of it anymore. B-but fine,“ he shrugged his shoulders, “if you think we shouldn’t discuss it just yet, we won’t. I just want you to know that it’s all fine, thanks to _you_  I feel better after all. Obviously. You can believe me this time, I swear. You trust me, right? Your - your presence here makes  _everything_  better, John.“ _You belong here_  is what Sherlock wanted to say but decided against it in the end.

“Of course I trust you,“ John smiled fondly, his cheeks tinged pink. John’s heart beat with relief, fluttering as fast as if there was a tiny hummingbird caged inside his chest. The way Sherlock looked at him, so sincerely, so openly grateful for John’s support, it had been a proof enough that he wasn’t fibbing this time. Sherlock was certainly in need of much more than just a cup of tea so he would fully recover, there was no doubt, but John was prepared to provide whatever was necessary. As it seemed, they had already made the first, crucial step.

Sitting there with Sherlock all by himself, John realised how much he wished he’d never have to leave the flat again. He wished he could stay, taking care of Sherlock forever, loving him the way Sherlock had always deserved and eventually, maybe even confess what he’d felt ever since the minute he’d walked into that lab all those five years ago. Even though the fear of being rejected had been present, always, preventing John from being fully prepared, he could no longer pretend he wasn’t so unconditionally, so profoundly in love with Sherlock. He was too tired of waiting for a miracle that would solve all his problems, too tired of pretending he was happy with someone who had betrayed him and lied to him about everything, he’d never been.

His entire life was revolving around Sherlock, a life that had been a grim and hapless one without him. John regretted every opportunity he had ever wasted, each single moment of not revealing that truth to him. Now it might have been too late as well, too much of a risk to take that step but John was willing to give everything so he could give Sherlock one more hint, anything, so Sherlock would finally understand how he felt about him. John had already toyed with the notion a couple of times in the past few months, he wanted to fight the fear and admit he was in love, but each time he back pedalled instead, concluding that it might have been as well an utterly unwise move, especially now, considering the current conditions. It didn't matter how heedfully he'd wanted to approach the topic. Sherlock was grieving, dealing with somewhat a dark secret he’d been reluctant to reveal for decades and Mary was determined to keep them separated, John realised, judging from the amount of virulent calls he’d already received that morning. But those words were on the tip of John’s tongue already, threatening to crawl out of his mouth in spite of his own will, in spite of such an inconvenient timing.

John’s attempts were, however, whether unfortunately or not, thwarted by his own phone that had started buzzing quite obnoxiously, teetering on the edge of the table where John had left it.

“Will you not answer it?“ Sherlock knitted his eyebrows, leaning forward to have a look at the name that had been flashing on the screen. John merely growled at the device, evidently angry he’d been interrupted in such a fashion. The universe seemed to be putting another obstacle in his way, almost like a sign, although one John refused to take seriously.

“It’s Mary,“ Sherlock said, glancing at John but received no positive reaction.

“Of course it’s  _her_ ,“ John rolled his eyes, “she’s been pestering me like this for hours already.“

“Well, she’s your wife, she’s got every right to know why you haven’t spent a night at home,“ Sherlock pointed out. “What if it’s important?“

“Oh no, I know  _exactly_ what she wants. She’s just trying to… intimidate me,“ John snarled, putting the mug aside in fear of not handling the situation very well. Mary was the last person he wanted to talk about in the middle of making what was probably the most important decision of his life. He hesitated, still unsure whether to drag Sherlock into such a mess his own life with Mary had been, but then his phone beeped again, once, twice, John could’ve as well erupt if he didn’t talk about what had been bothering him for such a long time already.

“Sherlock, I am not answering,“ he shook his head, reacting to another one of Sherlock's questioning looks. “I already tried talking to her, you know, she - she had accused me of being a terrible husband for  _abandoning_  her. She didn’t even bother to ask how  _you_  were. She is using that baby to manipulate me, which is ironic enough since she thinks I am going to be a… pretty rubbish father,“ John cursed under his breath, already regretting he hadn’t kept his mouth shut.

“That’s obviously  _not_  true,“ Sherlock protested, raising his voice out of nowhere as if that statement had personally offended him, catching John completely off guard. “You’re going to be a great father, John, You’re the most loyal, the most caring and considerate person I have the fortune of knowing. I am sure Mary thinks the same. She has changed. Which is why I-I don't think she meant any of _that_. She loves you. Why would she continue hurting you on purpose?“

John cocked his head, struggling to believe he had heard right. “Changed? Sherlock, are you even aware of who are we talking about here?“

“Yes, I am  _very_ well aware,“ Sherlock nodded, bitterness in his tone. He knew better than anyone. The proof being a hideous scar marking his chest, existence of which, however, wasn't anything he wanted to talk about at the moment.

“John, you should bear in mind that Mary is currently under the influence of very strong emotions. Just look at the two of us. You-you said you _knew_ that nothing what _I_ had told you yesterday before fleeing like a coward had been true. Because I was in a bad place, miserable and therefore not able to think clearly. And you were right, I told you already. The point I am trying to make is that... Mary is the same. I suspect she's afraid, and so desperate so she’s accidentally making you feel bad.“

Sherlock closed his eyes, taking a pause to compose himself. Admitting how he felt wasn’t something he’d got particularly used to just yet, most certainly not in John's presence. Not to mention how difficult it was trying to persuade not only John but also himself alone that Mary was trustworthy enough now, that she had changed for better, because who wouldn’t do that for John Watson and his child? The possibility that he had been wrong about her again and so he had been partially, albeit unintentionally, responsible for putting John through something that brought him so much pain instead of happiness was so terrifying that Sherlock simply denied to accept that. Deliberatedly or not, however, the knowledge that Mary was hurting John again, made the blood boil in his veins. And yet he tried to convince himself that it must have been just a momentary issue, a misunderstanding, still believing that John was meant to be with  _her_.  

“ _Fear_ , John, is the most cunning enemy,“ Sherlock added, ignoring John's stunned face. “It’s able to control you, to exploit you, making you do and say things you’d never commit otherwise. Never _again_ in this case.“

John gasped, stuttering throughout his reply. “Sherlock, you – you can’t just apply the same... listen, you can’t even compare Mary to yourself. First of all, I am pretty sure that she knows exactly how much she's hurting me, she's not - God, Sherlock, what-what can be Mary  _possibly_  afraid of?“

“Losing you?“ Sherlock shrugged, blurting out the words before he’d actually rethought the consequences of that action. “You’re spending too much time with me now.“

“Christ of course I _do_ ,“ John cried out but lowered his voice again immediately after. “I-I mean, yes... yes, you're right, I _am_ pretty sure she's acting like that because I spend more time with you but if she was truly so  _afraid_  of losing me just because she _loves_ me, she would not say all that horrid stuff, that makes no sense. If she has changed she would show some respect, but no, she's just trying to make me feel  _guilty_  for putting you first so she can keep me far away from you. Just because it's not convenient to her when I am with you. It's what selfish people like her do. Manipulate because they believe they _own_ you. They believe you're obliged to act the way they desire. She's nothing but cruel, which is why I - I don't understand why you're trying so hard to defend her.“

Sherlock found himself gawking at John for a brief while, for his tone was somewhat harsh and full of disappointment. He didn't comprehend yet, still persuading his own perplexed self that he was right, that Mary was the best that could happen to John, that she had changed because of him, taking no risks anymore. John chose her after all. It was meant to be that way or so Sherlock thought, having a hard time understanding why John was acting so oddly all of a sudden, talking about Mary as if he felt nothing but hatred toward her. Even though judging from the facts, he seemed to have more than one valid reason now.

“John... John, please, don't think that I am belitteling your feelings in any form or shape. I am on your side, entirely, not hers. What _you_ feel is much more important to me than whatever Mary does, I loathe it as much as you do, that she's being so cruel to you.  All I am saying is that I think it's because she feels threatened. What if she thinks you’re choosing me over her...  _permanently_ , John?“ Sherlock elaborated, his voice fading out as if he was ashamed of saying those words aloud.

“Yeah, well, what if she’s right?“

John gaped like a carp as soon as letting the words out, his heart hammering so fiercely against his ribs it must had been audible. There went his attempts to approach the subject carefully, step by step, or better yet, not at all yet, so Sherlock would not be exposed to such an overwhelming emotional impact after everything he had been through in the past few days. Despite being so eager to finally discuss it, John still deemed it quite impertinent to talk with Sherlock about his feelings for him so openly so soon after what had happened to Mycroft. No amount of apologies were enough to make him feel less remorseful for even starting such an intimate conversation. 

“Sherlock, I-“

“No, no, please, don't, you're making no sense, John-“ Sherlock stammered, his face even paler than before. Cogwheels in his head were turning fast but there was nothing comprehensible about John's words. “I - I shouldn’t have said anything. It’s your life, your marriage, I shouldn’t have meddled.“

John frowned, words escaping his throat even though he’d rather put an instant end to such a conversation. “ _You_ shouldn’t have meddled? Sherlock, let’s not pretend I didn’t stay with Mary just because  _you_  told me I could still trust her.“

“Wha-what are you talking about, John? She’s the mother of your child, your wife, she’s... she’s - you  _love_  her, John.“

Sherlock seemed to be so convinced of the trueness of that statement, so much so John actually had to decide not keeping his thoughts and feelings for himself only anymore, despite being so unsure whether it was right to give away anything just yet.

“Sherlock, I am… I am not quite certain that either of _that_ is actually true,“ he said, sighing heavily once finally letting it off his chest.  

Silence descended. Sherlock offered no response but another utterly confused look before he squinted at John, gazing at him as pensively as if he was trying to deduce what was actually going through his head. “Is – is  _that_ what you wanted to discuss yesterday? You think that – you think that baby is not yours?“

“Sherlock, I – I didn’t want to tell you, not while you’re still being in such a poor state,“ John spluttered, apologising hastily. “God, this shouldn’t have happened, you should be resting, not-“

“What makes you think she cheated on you?“ Sherlock asked, almost as if he wasn’t even listening.

“Sherlock, we really shouldn’t-“

John piped down immediately upon noticing Sherlock's sullen pout. It seemed it had been far too late to take any of what he'd said back so John could as well answer Sherlock’s question instead.

“Fine…  _fine_ then, I - It wasn’t particularly difficult to get the dates right,“ John admitted, crumpling the edge of the blanket. “I’ve had my doubts ever since the beginning, I haven’t been paying much attention to them at first, but - but then… then it turned out that my wife was in fact a cold-blooded assassin and quite a malicious liar so I couldn’t just let go off those suspicions. I am almost sure that I can in  _no_  way be the baby’s father, Sherlock.“

Sherlock bit his lip, his brow furrowed, still in a deep thought. “One hundred percent sure?“ he lifted his gaze after a moment, scrutinising John’s expressions. “You don’t sound surprised. That’s… strange at most.“

“Surprised? Sherlock, is it truly such a shock that the woman who had  _never_  told me a single truth would also be capable of cheating on me?“

“That’s different, John.“

“Really? How?“ John snorted. “Just don’t tell me she had done all of _that_ so she could have protected me, I’ve never believed that fairy tale. Sherlock, if she loved me so deeply, she wouldn’t have deceived me in such a way, she wouldn't be acting so abhorrently now. She would have never shot you in the first place. I told you, Sherlock. Mary believes she _owns_ me, she thinks she can control me, Sherlock, that’s  _not_   _love_. You said I can trust her, I don't know why, but I don’t, I can’t do this any longer. What even is the point when – when I… Sherlock, I…  _don’t love Mary_.“

Sherlock swallowed hard, his breathing noticeably quickening. John was as much taken aback as Sherlock, proceeding to realise the relevance of that confession as slowly as if he didn’t even believe he’d actually said that aloud. He could but shake his head vigorously, running a hand down his face.

“I am sorry, I am so sorry, Sherlock, I couldn’t have chosen a worse time to tell you-“

“You don’t have to be sorry, it-it doesn’t matter,“ Sherlock opposed, his voice trembling as he spoke. It didn’t hit him until then how immensely wrong he really was, how stupid of him was trying to make up such absurd excuses for Mary's sinister behaviour, especially since the one suffering here was evidently John and despite Sherlock's initial belief she really seemed to be well aware of her harmful actions. For a moment Sherlock couldn't even bring himself to open his mouth and speak again, his brain was like paralysed, not responding to anything, not even John's voice this time. Not until a couple of seconds later at least, but the reaction was hardly one John expected.

“I – I… I don’t get it,“ Sherlock shook his head, glancing at John for only a split of second befre quickly averting his eyes again. “I thought that you  _wanted_  this, John. I don’t understand what’s happened. You were finally about to get the life you’ve always yearned for, a wife, a family. All I wanted for you was to be… content and happy. I thought you were about to have all that with Mary, but here you are, telling me she's deliberatedly treating you worse than a piece of dirt. I-I-I suppose it would be foolish of me, asking for forgivness now that I've made you believe your feelings mattered less, but know that I thought you were just misunderstanding just because I believed that she had become someone else, someone better, buried her villainous self _for you._  Why would anyone not do that for you knowing you loved them? Why else I’d let her anywhere near you if I didn’t believe that she was no longer dangerous, that you still loved one another?“

John slouched back against the cushion, his jaw hanging open in amazement. “So… you’ve convinced me to stay with her just because you thought that _I_ _wanted_ it? Sherlock, after all what Mary had done to you, to  _us_ , did you really believe that being with her was what would make me happy? That such a person would ever change? That I have forgiven her? How could I? I know she didn’t save your life, she’d nearly  _killed_  you, I’d  _never_  forgive her anything so heinous. I didn’t leave her in an instant only because I trusted your judgement, despite the fact you had continued defending her and helping her, I still did. I thought you had a secret plan so Mary would pay for what she’d done, you always have one,  _you_ are the genius one here. So I deceived her, I’ve been silently waiting for weeks, for _months,_ Sherlock, for you to make a move… now I see that I should have not played a fool this time.“

“I am not sure what kind of a move you expected me to make, John,“ Sherlock frowned, eyes fixed on the floor at first as if he couldn’t bear to look directly in John’s eyes just yet, feeling ashamed and guilty. “I didn’t think you needed to be  _convinced_  so you stayed with Mary. I thought you loved her, remember? I was just making sure you wouldn’t do something stupid out of spite, something you would later regret. At least I  _thought_  you’d regret it. What was I supposed to do, John? Make sure she would rot in the jail? What about the baby? You haven’t told me about your suspicions, you haven’t told me how you’d felt, you’ve told me  _nothing_. I didn’t know you’d been  _so_  affected by what she’d done to me. Yes, you  _were_  furious but I thought it would pass quickly. I would have never guessed you’d ever consider leaving your pregnant wife forever, throwing  _everything_  away, your entire life even just because, because of what... me?“ Sherlock blinked, not quite believing he dared to make such an assumption aloud since he was still too stubborn to admit the possibility that he understood John correctly. He must have been deluding himself, he was sure of it, and yet it didn't prevent him from continuing. It was too late to stop his agitated self.

“For God’s sake - I’ve done what I thought was  _right_ , John, what was the best for  _you_ ,“ he exclaimed, almost as if he was just watching himself acting from outside his body, without being able to stop himself. “I thought it was obvious.  _Everything_  I’ve done for Mary, I have done, only because I thought you had forgiven her, because  _you_  cared about her, I - I mean I believed you did up until now,“ Sherlock sniffed, his breathing ragged and eyes welling up once he glanced back at John who himself had troubles holding back the tears.

“You-you see, John, you were wondering why Mycroft and I had always considered love and care such a disadvantage, such an...error,“ he added after a moment of aching silence, barely whispering, his face wilting like a plant and paler than ever before and eyes glistening with sparkling tears. “Now here's why. See how many mistakes I've made already? How exceptionally wrong I turned out to be? I’ve completely lost my mind over doing what I thought was good for  _you_... over _protecting_   _you_ -“ Sherlock’s voice gave in once again, fading out into a heavy shaky sigh.

“Sherlock-“

“Just don’t let this affect you in any way, John,“ Sherlock warned him, terrified of the possible turn that sort of a dialogue could take. “I didn't say it so I could distract you from what is truly important. It doesn't matter what I... what _I_ feel now, John. Focus on the present. You told me the truth about... about Mary and the baby and trust me I’ve never found myself in the position so I had to repeat this particular sentence so often but... I still don't understand...why, what difference that makes? What are you going to do now that you told me all this?“

Sherlock’s question had been left unanswered, John could hardly even begin to ponder about it at first. He stared at Sherlock, bewildered for a moment, trying to process what he’d just learnt. The same man who had claimed that caring had been a weakness, cared, in fact, the most. He cared the most about _John_ even, something that John’s mind simply refused to comprehend just yet. Years of doubting, years of wondering whether Sherlock was capable of loving and now he was there, snapping, breaking in half, introducing his most vulnerable self to John, his soft core that had been hidden from everyone’s sight for most of his life. The worst, however, was being asked to not be affected by what Sherlock felt, ignore that even as if it weren't the thing John considered the most important thing in the world. 

“Jesus, this isn’t a conversation I intended to have so early in the morning, especially not after what happened,“ John uttered at last, rubbing his eyes so to prevent tears from bursting but he couldn't stop a broken sob from escaping his throat. “Sherlock, you can't just say it doesn't matter what _you_ feel, for fuck's sake, it matters the most. You've lost your brother, you just told me you-“

“John, please,  _focus_ ,“ Sherlock pleaded. “Mycroft is gone, yes, but our lives have to go on. Somehow. What we have to concentrate on now is that Mary is still carrying a baby - don’t look at me like that, please. Regardless of who Mary is and... how you feel about her, John, you are an honourable man, you have no heart leaving Mary alone with a child, whether it’s yours or not. I know that rage and hurt has clouded your senses but there’s nothing we can change about it. You can’t just leave Mary in the blink of an eye even if it's what I suspect you want right now.“

“Christ, Sherlock–,“ John faltered mid-sentence, taking a brief pause so he would collect himself. He was still shaken because of what Sherlock had said, sacrificing everything, his own life even just so he could keep him safe. Asking nothing from John in return. Sherlock was even willing to sweep his own feelings under the carpet just because he considered John's well-being much more important. The mere notion had made John's heart beat so roughly so he could combust with love and affection he felt for that man.

“Sherlock, look“ John soughed, stressing each single of his words. After what Sherlock just told him, he was determined to reveal everything, feelings so intense, simmering beneath the surface. John was in fact surprised he’d managed to keep quiet for so long. “The moment I learnt that Mary had shot you, it was  _over_  for me,“ he said. “I – I guess, it shouldn’t have even started, it was a mistake, I dare to say, the biggest mistake of my life. I reckon I’ve realised that way too late, Sherlock. Christ, I may have never been more clueless in my life, but at least I know, I am  _certain_  that I can’t live with Mary anymore. I can't stay with her, I don't _want_ to. Baby or not. Yes, you’re right, that innocent being is in no way responsible for what a vicious person her mother is. But I just  _refuse_  to spend the rest of my life with a woman who – who had put me through the terror of losing you again.“

Sherlock managed to utter but a small, weak _John_  before his voice cracked and he could say no more. He stared at John in mild shock, watching him as he shuffled closer, this time not hesitating to place a hand over his shoulder.

“Are you okay, Sherlock?“ John’s voice was soft, but quivering with concern, noticing how Sherlock’s entire body shuddered under his touch.

“Y-yes, I just... I have never believed you’d be  _so_  afraid of losing me. I have never believed there’d be  _anyone_  like you one day, John, someone who would truly worry about me this much. Well, there had been my brother but… this is completely different. I am getting none of this. There is no universe in which you'd ever leave your own child and wife, no matter who she is, just because of me. Ridiculous. You can’t do that, John, it makes no sense whatsoever.“

“Sherlock…“ John’s hand twitched, he yearned to reach and wrap his arms around Sherlock’s body, never letting go off him, assure him he was worth much more he’d been thinking of himself. His entire self ached at the sight of Sherlock shrinking so small in front of him, full of insecurities, pain, doubt and fear.

“Do you really not see how important you are?“ John whispered, rubbing small circles with his thumb across Sherlock’s upper arm. “There’s Mrs Hudson, your parents, Lestrade, Molly,  _me_ , we all care and worry about you because we - we  _love_  you. Mycroft loved you too, yes he cared about you whether he had  _truly_  considered it a weakness or not. He was just trying to protect you from getting your feelings hurt. Sherlock, you’ve never meant to be alone, you’ve never been and you never will, you’ll always have _me_. I told you already. I will be here for you until my last breath because  _you_ , Sherlock, are the most important person in my life, _not_ Mary. She’s never been, she’s not even been a substitute, no one could ever replace  _you_  in my life. No matter how hard I’ve tried, my life was barely worth living while you’ve been gone. There was this bloody hole in my heart that no one but you could fill again, Sherlock. The truth is, I’ve made my choice long ago, in the very beginning. I was just too  _stupid_  to admit it aloud.“

“Your – your choice?“ Sherlock gulped, his chin wobbling as he tried to choke back the tears. He felt almost as if burning from inside, his body shimmering with anticipation in response to what John was about to say.

“Y-yes, my choice,“ John nodded, continuing even though his tongue was dry and heavy in his mouth. But John wasn't going to waste another opportunity, not this time. Not when Sherlock finally managed to look him in the eyes without turning away. 

“Didn't I tell you already, hm? My choice is you, Sherlock. I am choosing… _you_.“

Sherlock sucked in air, sharply, his chest raising and falling fast and uneven. For a moment it looked like he was going to faint. The very prospect frightened John so much so he immediately regretted uttering those words. He had braced himself to confess, finally after years of pretending and wavering but upon seeing Sherlock’s reaction, all the courage he had had to admit that he was in love with him vanished in an instant. 

“Sherlock, I am so-“

“No, no, no, don’t apologise,“ Sherlock flapped his hand. “I-I am just confused, I don't get  _anything_  of what is happening. I - for God’s sake, what is all this supposed to mean, John?“ he asked, with a touch of theatricality, tossing his arms in the air. He sprang up from the sofa, walking round the room in circles like an anxious lion inside his cage before he stopped all of a sudden as if his mind just clicked in an unexpected realisation.

“Are you – are you trying to imply you want to move back in?“

“Well, that's certainly not what I expected you to ask, but eventually-“

“ _Eventually_?“

John shook his head, not responding to Sherlock’s question. “I thought you’d be glad.“

“Of course I’d be  _glad_ ,“ Sherlock bawled. “I just fear you’re purposefully omitting one pretty relevant detail, John. What if that baby  _is_  yours? Would you still give up on her and her mother because – because of  _me_? That’s absurd, that’s nothing like you, John.“

Instead of a reply John let out a frustrated sigh, kicking the blanket away before he reached to grab his trousers, attempting to try to put them on while taking fast, clumsy steps toward Sherlock.

“Is it not?“ he snapped once buckling up his belt, crossing his arms over his chest a mere couple of inches away from Sherlock. “Sherlock I have given up on everything because of you the moment I’d walked into that bloody lab.“

“That’s-that's not the answer to what I asked you.“ Sherlock mirrored John's stance, trying desperately to ignore how frantically his heart was pounding. 

“You’ve dodged that question, John, because you know that even though you’re so determined to leave Mary in this moment, once the baby’s born your perspective might completely change. Once you hold her in your arms you won’t be bothered to remember me, nor what a person her mother is, not least that she might not be yours.“

“Sherlock-“ John rubbed his forehead, glancing down at the carpet for a moment before meeting Sherlock's eyes again. “I  _am_ _willing_ to help that baby as much as I can, just not the way you expect me to. It’s for her own good, she doesn’t deserve such an awful life, at all. First of all, this little girl needs her _real_   _father_ , not someone who can’t even stand to be in the vicinity of her mother. “

“Her real father? And who would that be?“

“God knows, I wasn't entirely sure at first, probably not until now even but it's time to face the truth...it just  _can’t_  be me. Fuck, if we’ve talked about this in the very beginning none of this would have happened. We could have been together long ago.“

Sherlock blinked, his cheeks turning bright red even though he was sure he must have misinterpreted John’s words. Again. “T-together?“

“I-I-I mean, I meant –  _living_  together again,“ John stuttered, ignoring the cold sweat that had flushed his face. All the courage gone, indeed.

“L-listen, Sherlock, it hurts, it does, so much. I’ve been so excited to see my daughter grow. I’ve looked pass all the doubt I’d had because for one blissful moment I believed that Mary would never do this to me. But then she did even worse, something unforgivable. I've lost my faith in her, my trust. I want to cut all the ties with her, immediately and once and for all. Sherlock, please understand, trust me, Sherlock, when I say that it's you who means the most to me. Not Mary.  _No one_ else. It hurts to know that you refuse to believe you could be anyone's top priority but know that you are mine. Always. I know it's why you're acting like this now, but, Sherlock, I have made my choice and there is no force on this Earth or elsewhere that will change my opinion. Not even that baby. So please just stop with this madness. Please, just try, Sherlock, you have to try to stop tricking yourself into thinking something that is not true at all just because you believe you deserve no good.“

Sherlock attempted to react but the sound he made was more of an aborted whimper than an actual word. He tried to put the pieces together, make sense of what John was trying to explain to him but the mere concept of John Watson choosing him of all people over everybody else sounded too surreal to be true. One thing however, he had finally accepted. Pretending for any longer turned out to be futile. Mary was still the same volatile person she had always been, fooling him all over again, using and humiliating John even who appeared to be anything but happy by her side. Which naturally meant, much to Sherlock's horrific realisation, that if John decided to leave her now, it would put his life in peril since she was not only capable but more than willing to get a revenge on him. Sherlock had seldom felt so guilty and angry at himself for drawing so many wrong conclusions. Fixing that situation might have as well been impossible at that point but Sherlock would rather get tortured again than not giving it one more try. He had vowed to be always there for John after all, for him and the baby who was now, along with the attempt to keep John safe, the only reason why he still hesitated to fully support John’s decision which seemed to be leaving Mary in that very moment. 

“Does Mary know?“ he asked once the words were no longer stuck in his throat, talking to a vague spot somewhere in the distance rather than John. “Does she know you have all these suspicions?“

“I… I doubt. Well, I am pretty sure she considers me too naive and dumb to count, so-“

“Good. It has to stay that way.“

“Wh-what?“ John's eyes widened. “You said you’d never let her anywhere near me if you didn’t believe we’d loved each other. And now you know you were wrong, you know I don't want to be with her, not even because of the baby and yet you _still_ insist that we should stay together? Even though she acts so awfully? Forgive me for completely missing the point here, Sherlock. Do you not trust my intuition or is it-“

“No, I _do_ trust you, John. Completely. Your feelings are justified,“ Sherlock said, shortening the gap between them, this time keeping the eye contact even though it was more than difficult, feeling so ashamed of himself.

“I do realise now that I should have rather listened to you more closely, trying to understand from the very beginning, instead of coming up with all those, frankly, ridiculous excuses. You do remember how I told you there was no need fooling such a smart man like you? Alas, I was so stupidly ignoring this very knowledge just because I was _so_ scared of being wrong about Mary again. I was scared because being wrong meant that you were miserable and unhappy and  _I_ was responsible. I didn't want to be wrong, I didn't want to accept that I had been tricked once again. Which is why I dare to say, you might be even smarter than me now, since you were able to see right through Mary whilst I was simply... too blinded,“ Sherlock swallowed, pursing his trembling lips. “I defended Mary, yes, but don't think, for one second, John, that it was because of anything else but your own good. I defended her despite everything because I-I thought her to be the right choice for you, the better one, the one _you_ chose and cherished. Don't give me that look, John, yes, I do realise that being a spy  _and_ an assassin who attempted to murder me should automatically erase her chances for redemption but she seemed to let go off her earlier life so she could be there for you and her daughter and I was dull enough to believe her. All so to make sure you’d get what I thought you wanted. As it turns out, some of my assumptions _were_ significantly incorrect. Instead of making you happy I put your life in imminent danger, leaving you with a... lunatic you didn’t want to be with at all, which I sincerely apologise for.“

John scowled. “So _why_ exactly do you want me to stay with her then?“

“It's quite obvious, John,“ Sherlock sighed, but there was no haughtiness in his voice witch which he so smugly used to enlighten people. “Despite everything I’ve just learnt, we have to bear in mind that not much has actually changed. Your wife is going to give birth in two weeks. I am afraid there is nothing we can do, at least not until then. You have to agree on that with me, John.“

“So you’re saying I am trapped forever?“ John groaned, putting his hands on his hips. “With the person I don’t love, person who had hurt me, betrayed me, mocked me,  _tricked_  me in the most disgusting way imaginable?“

“ _No_ , _not_ forever,“ Sherlock argued, disrupting John mid-sentence. “John, I am not forcing you into doing something that I know you find uncomfortable. I would never again do anything like that, especially now, that I know how you  _really_ feel about her. It shall be your choice, whatever you decide to do. I just fear you really didn't think this through at all. What I believe is that we should wait until Mary gives birth. You must keep on pretending you are clueless, if you accused her of infidelity without any evidence, she could claim you’re just making  _excuses_  so you can leave her and your daughter.“

“Yes, she's certainly an expert in playing the victim card but why am I supposed to give a shit about these fabricated lies?“ 

“Because, now that you told me the truth, and... well, after taking some time to process and accept it... I have to assume that it’s not just these lies she could destroy your life with. I thought she was no longer...harmless, but considering how badly she's treating you and on purpose even... that seems to be far from true. Unfortunately. If you're right about her intentions to keep you on a leash no matter what, then she will never let the divorce go quietly. The worse, of course, is that she could _hurt_ you even more John and I just can't let that happen again. I won't. Not after making you believe that I cared more about her reasons than you. I-I am sorry, John, truly, for making you believe in something so absurdly inaccurate,“ Sherlock yelped, swallowing dryly before continuing.  

“Still. You must have realised by now, this is hardly a simple matter of two people separating for good, John. Mycroft... Mycroft can't help us anymore, no one will, we are almost powerless. I promise I'll try to get you out of this if you truly want but for now I suggest to wait, for your own safety. You currently have no better option, since leaving her so spontaneously could result in a disaster. If you truly won't change your mind even once your…  _the_  baby is born,  _then_  we can  _somehow_  begin resolving this situation. But I warn you, it’s going to be difficult, she has all the advantages here. As I said, however, it's up to you to decide this time. I have no right to dictate you what to do.“

“Dificult or not, I am not going to change my mind anyway,“ John shook his head in a resolute disagreement. “I can’t stay with Mary much longer, not after everything she’d done, definitely not so I could take care of a child she has with whatever random rascal. If I knew that you were about to do nothing despite the fact that she had bloody shot you in your chest I would have taken this matter into my own hands in the beginning. Maybe it wouldn’t have gone this far. Now it's too late. I-I, don't expect _you_ to act _now_ and solve my problems, that's out of the question, Sherlock. I would never ask for anything such selfish and ignorant. You don't have to deal with _any_ of this on your own. I need no promises, all I am asking for is some _support_.“

Sherlock opened his mouth again but John had been already shambling in the opposite direction. He rummaged for a while, searching for the rest of his clothes in the pile of mess that had been the sitting room before he turned around again, never leaving his eyes off Sherlock as he walked, much to Sherlock’s surprise toward the bathroom door instead of the exit.

“You-you’re not leaving?“ Sherlock asked, his voice still shaking with emotions.

John stopped halfway through the corridor, his entire body tense from what Sherlock could observe. “No, not yet. I’ll take a shower, make some breakfast, I guess. I might go and grab some clean clothes but then I return back to you. As I’ve promised, I’ll take care of you, Sherlock, nothing has changed about that.“

“So what-“

“Don’t worry,“ John waved a hand in surrender, “I don't want to argue with you anymore, that's the last thing you need, so... so fine then. If you think it's wiser to wait, I'll wait. I won’t do anything stupid, Sherlock, nothing I first don't consult with you. My lips are sealed, as you wish. I will play a fool in front of Mary for the next couple of weeks until one of us figures how to deal with this so no one else gets hurt. Especially not that baby. And then… we shall see.“

Once uttering those words John disappeared behind the door at last, leaving Sherlock all by himself.

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to my wonderful beta [kettlepillow](http://archiveofourown.org/users/kettlepillow/pseuds/kettlepillow) ^_^ theanisplanet on tumblr!


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